Thicker Than Water
by PsandQs
Summary: An alternative ending to episode 10.6.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is an alternate ending fic. It starts at the beginning of episode 10.6, and stays as close as possible to the real episode. As a result, you'll recognise a lot of the dialogue. That dialogue and the wonderful characters do not belong to me, but is the property of the talented Spooks writers.**

_London, Home Office_

A ripple of applause breaks out as the Home Secretary and Ilya Gavrik shake hands. Ruth watches from the doorway. She should feel relief that it is done, but all she can think about at that moment is the man she said goodbye to a few hours earlier. The words she said to him keep swirling around in her head – _this can't be the end_. Nine years of struggle and strife, and of mutual admiration, respect, friendship and adoration ended with a brief kiss by the Thames. At least the location was fitting, she thinks bitterly. As the river ebbs and flows, so do their connection to each other. Sometimes flowing strong, an irresistible force dragging them towards or away from each other, other times a gentle trickle that allows them to float along peacefully, together.

She wonders where he is, whether the Americans are treating him well. It's ironic that a man who's done so many dark deeds in a lifetime of service to his country, should be made to pay for the one thing he actually didn't do. She has been wracking her brain for a way out of this mess ever since he walked away from her and her heart broke at the thought of never seeing him again. He told her not to do anything, not to come and see him, and in that moment she understood for the first time, with certain clarity, how much of what he does is aimed at protecting her. Not only from the shady world they inhabit, but also from himself and the demons he lives with everyday. Sometimes she thinks it is all they ever do – try to protect the other at the cost of personal happiness.

Elena Gavrik gets up and walks towards her, and she feels a sudden flash of envy for all that this woman once got to share with Harry. She envies the emotional courage of acting upon feelings, the intimacy, and the act of love that brought forth a son. Yes, she thinks, what she envies this elegant woman most of all is the child she got to have with Harry. But she no longer fears that Elena still has his love, not after the events by the Thames this morning. Elena reaches her and starts to speak, and Ruth realises that nothing is what it seems. And that Elena may just have afforded her the opportunity of seeing Harry again.

- o -

As the two women go down in the lift together, Elena addresses her. "You understand the guilt Harry has always felt about me; about Sasha… Do you think it's what kept you from being together?"

She pauses and allows the thought to sink in. "Don't worry – Harry will see things differently soon."

Ruth doesn't know what to say to that, so she says nothing. She stands behind Elena and thinks back over the last nine years. She remembers a clumsy dinner invitation and dancing bread rolls; gossip and sad desirous eyes in a hotel corridor; a glassing in a men's club and a faked death; a farewell on a cold dock and _Something wonderful that was never said;_ a man shot dead, the loss of a boy and _I'm trying, with all my limitations;_ _There will always be something else;_ an ill-timed proposal and a rejection, and _You think I haven't forgiven you for George, but the truth is much worse;_ the handing over of a state secret and _In that moment it was unfair of you to love me;_ and _It's my turn_ and tears.

And she thinks, no, it's about so much more than guilt over a long-lost son, so much more complicated than Elena Gavrik could ever conceive. This thought, and the knowledge that the Russian does not understand Harry quite as well as she thinks she does, almost makes Ruth smile.

As they leave the hotel and head towards the waiting car, a blonde woman suddenly steps in front of them and says, "Mrs Gavrik?"

Ruth's heart stops when she sees the familiar face.

"Yes?" Elena says with a charming smile.

"Catherine Townsend. You contacted me about a possible documentary?"

Elena's smile widens as she studies the woman in front of her. "Ye-es," she says, and the way she draws out the word alarms Ruth immeasurably. Not for the first time, a niggling doubt worms into her mind about Elena Gavrik.

"I want her to come with us," Elena says, and Ruth realises that she knows exactly who Catherine Townsend is.

"No, absolutely not," Ruth declares resolutely. She ignores Catherine and addresses the Russian. "This is not a game, Elena. It's a matter of national security. If you think I'm going to allow press anywhere near this-"

"She comes," Elena persists, "or I give Harry nothing."

Catherine, who has been listening to their conversation in some confusion, now asks sharply, "Harry?"

Ruth abandons all pretence and turns to Catherine. "Yes. She lied to you, Catherine. This has nothing to do with a documentary, and everything to do with your father and his work. Please, walk away, and stay away from Elena Gavrik, for your own good."

Catherine hesitates and looks uncertainly between the two women, unsure who to trust.

And then Elena says, "I have information about a terror attack on London, planned for today. If you don't come, I won't give your father the information, and hundreds of people will die."

They stare at her in horror, and Ruth knows that the battle is lost. Catherine is too much her father's daughter to walk away now.

When they are joined in the car by Sasha Gavrik holding a gun, Ruth begins to understand that today could well become the worst day of her life. But more than that, it will almost certainly turn out to be the worst of Harry's life, and for that she resents Elena Gavrik deeply.

- o -

He is jostled from side to side as the SUV leaves the tarmac and speeds over a gravel road. They are either taking him to the Welford Air Force base, or they are about to shoot him in the head and dump his body in the woods, he thinks dispassionately. Harry knows he should care more about which of the two options are the correct one, but he is numb. Perhaps he has finally reached critical mass in terms of the amount of pain that one person can reasonably endure before they shut down emotionally. He sees her face in front of him again, her eyes bright with tears as she tells him about the house she made an offer on, and lets himself believe for one moment that she was trying to tell him she wants to live there with him before he squashes the thought. Too late now. Perhaps it has been too late since the day he chose his particular career path. His jaw aches and as he lifts his hands to gingerly probe the spot where the Marine punched him, he feels the car coming to a stop. The back door opens and he is confronted with a masked man holding a gun, and for a split-second he thinks they are going to shoot him in the head after all. But then he recognises the eyes and Dimitri removes his mask.

"This is likely to come up in your pay review," he tells his officer gratefully before getting out stiffly.

Later, in the car, as they fill him in on what is going on, his heart soars at the thought of seeing Ruth again, and he thinks that perhaps he hasn't quite reached his critical mass of emotional pain after all.

- o -

He walks towards her, Erin and Dimitri in tow, and she can't stop the smile from spreading across her face. Ruth wants to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his neck, tell him so many things, but she doesn't. She restrains herself to drinking him in, because she still has to inform him that his daughter is here. Somehow it didn't feel right to let Erin do that.

"I hear Sasha's joined us," he says, his voice full of light and his eyes soft on her, and she wishes she didn't have to tell him about Catherine.

"Hm," she responds, "he wouldn't give up his gun. But I think he just wants to know what's going on."

She stops walking and holds him back with a hand on his sleeve. "Harry, there's something else. Catherine is here too."

He stares at her uncomprehendingly. "_What_? But how…"

She explains succinctly, and sees the anger rising in him with every word she utters.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I couldn't stop her."

"Where's Catherine now?" he asks through clenched teeth, and beneath the anger she detects his fear.

"I kept everyone separate. I'll take you to her."

She moves past him but his voice stops her.

"No," he says, all the light gone from his tone. "There's no time. I have to see Elena first."

- o -

As it turns out Sasha Gavrik is the first person he talks to. They stand in front of each other knowingly as father and son for the first time, and he is surprised how easily his heart fills with love for this boy. _His son_. And he is saddened by his inability to express what he is feeling, to say anything at all. Sasha seems similarly inhibited, which is not surprising seeing as he's had only a day to process the information. So they stand in awkward silence, feeling so much, until Sasha's mobile breaks the spell.

"It's my f-… It's… Ilya Gavrik."

Harry makes an instant decision. "Let me speak to him."

He tells Ilya to come and sends him their coordinates. He does not investigate his motives for doing so too closely. If pressed he will say that it is because he still suspects Ilya Gavrik of masterminding the attempts to scupper the partnership and wants him close, but he knows, deep down, that it is also retribution for having to sit and listen to Gavrik extolling his perfect life with his perfect family and his bloody tortoise in the garden. And it is insurance against Elena bringing Catherine into this, a development which makes him exceedingly apprehensive.

- o -

Elena tells him there is an attack planned on London and gives him a telephone number. He stands and looks at her, more aware than ever how true his words to Ruth were: this woman, the mother of his son, is a stranger to him. He is no longer sure what her role in all of this is. The only reason she could want Catherine here is to unsettle him, and he wonders why she would want that. He is also aware that he can't depend on his own judgement alone in this situation, that he is emotionally compromised. The next time he talks to her, he decides, he will have a second pair of eyes and ears with him.

- o -

In the end it is Ruth he takes with him when he goes back to Elena to look for answers. Not only because Erin and Dimitri are not there, but because he trusts her judgement above all others. It makes no difference, as he loses control of the situation almost immediately. He asks Elena who is behind the attacks on the partnership and she looks at him coolly, with a hint of a smile, before saying, "Bring your daughter into the room and I'll tell you."

Ruth, horrified, blurts out, "No!"

He is unspeakably grateful for her concern. But he doesn't deserve it – not after what he did to Elena and his son. He thinks he knows why Elena is doing this; she wants to hurt him for abandoning her and Sasha in Treptower Park. And because he knows that he did so much worse to her, that perhaps he never deserved Catherine's regard in the first place, he has no right to put it above the safety of the nation.

"Ruth," he says gently, "It's all right. Will you please fetch Catherine?"

Ruth looks at him for long seconds, and reads his surrender in his eyes. She understands that he is doing this as some sort of penance for failing Elena and Sasha, so she does his bidding without another word.

- o -

They are gathered in an absurd tableau: Harry, the asset he convinced himself he loved after she became pregnant with his child, the woman he truly does love, and his daughter – the apple of his eye - standing uncertainly in the corner. And of course, the son he never knew watching from outside. Harry knows that what is about to happen will irrevocably change his relationship with the two most important people in his life; that when this is all over he will probably have lost everything that has meaning for him just as surely as if he'd been taken to the US and thrown in prison. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and asks Elena again.

"Who is behind the attacks on the partnership?"

Her eyes move between him, and Ruth, and Catherine, and there is something calculating and cold in them that makes his stomach clench. And then she speaks the words that change everything.

"It was me, Harry."

He finally realises that he has got it wrong, that Ilya is innocent in all of this. His guilt over Elena and Sasha blinded him, and Elena used it ruthlessly to outmanoeuvre him. He has barely processed this thought when she hammers another nail into the coffin.

"Have you ever told anyone the truth about how you recruited me?" she asks, and his world implodes.

"You know?" he responds weakly, aware of Ruth's and his daughter's eyes on him.

"Yes," Elena says, with a hint of malice, before she turns her attention to Ruth. "I can see from your face he never told you. Too ashamed…"

Harry sinks into a chair and can't bring himself to look at Ruth. "Yes," he admits hoarsely.

Ruth glances between Harry and Elena, trying to figure out what Elena's true intentions are. She feels an overwhelming need to spare Harry this, especially in front of his daughter, so she tries to steer Elena back to the attacks.

But the Russian will not be deflected. "Harry and I were in love," she continues remorselessly. "Or at least we thought we were. But Harry had to choose between being a good man or a good spy."

Elena pauses, and when she continues she is talking directly to Ruth and Catherine. She explains how Harry lied to her about her parents' deaths, and used the lie to turn her.

"He asked me to spy on my country, my husband, to risk my life every day, to risk the safety of his own son," she adds casually.

Catherine draws in a sharp, shocked breath that spears straight through Harry's heart.

Elena's eyes flick to the young woman and she smiles, before looking back at Harry. "It was the making of him," she states with conviction, and Harry wants to laugh.

He understands what she means; that his actions towards her and Sasha and the resultant guilt turned him into the emotionally repressed man he is now. _Not quite_, he wants to say. _By the time you came along I had already sacrificed my best friend to the cause. You and Sasha are just one of many things that have made me the man I am_.

Elena turns her attention to Ruth, and to Catherine, eager to twist the knife.

"Do you see him differently now?" she asks with relish.

Harry can't bring himself to look at the two women he loves most in this world, afraid of what he will read in their faces. If he had, he would have seen the tears gathered in Ruth's eyes as she looks at him with infinite empathy.

"Yes," she says, willing him to look at her, to see her acceptance and forgiveness. When he doesn't, she spells it out.

"I see he's given more than I thought possible."

Harry's heart leaps at her words, but he is also painfully aware of the deafening silence from his daughter. It hurts more than he cares to admit. He tries to ignore the pain, focussing instead on the professional aspects of the situation by asking Elena how she found out. But instead of the professional offering a distraction, her answer only drags him deeper into emotional turmoil as he learns that she was never his asset to begin with.

"Poor, sweet Harry," Elena mocks him, as she exposes the extent of his folly and naivety. She mercilessly strips back the layers of her duplicitous role, and the stark exposure of his professional failure hurts almost as much as the personal pain. And on top of it all, the growing doubt about Sasha. Elena seems to sense this.

"Ask me, Harry. Be brave," she challenges.

He is not a coward, so he glances at Ruth, steeling himself for this final humiliation, and asks. "Is Sasha my son?"

She waits a beat, enjoying her ultimate triumph, before confirming what he already knows to be true. "No. He is Ilya's."

Later, he will examine his feelings over this revelation. He will try to figure out whether he is relieved that there is no longer a third child that he has failed, or whether he is disappointed that the young man he has come to love so easily is not his. But for now he takes refuge in his anger.

"It was a lie designed to bond me to you. To compromise me. You let me believe for almost thirty years that he was my son."

He can't quite keep the note of accusation out of his voice and Elena pounces on it. For the first time her composure slips and she betrays her bitterness.

"What about your lie?" she hisses. "You told me my parents were tortured, died in fear and pain, shot in the head, like dogs!"

Almost immediately she reins herself in and delivers the final blow. "The only difference is my lie was believed."

- o -

After that, things develop quickly. He tries to talk to Catherine but she avoids him, and he can't blame her. Instead he throws himself into resolving this crisis, to at least get something right. He almost messes that up as well, almost makes the same mistake of taking Elena Gavrik at her word. The truth is that he needs to believe her – needs to believe that there is some good in her, that he didn't read her so very wrong all those years ago. It is only Ruth's stubbornness to ferret out the truth, and her ability to change his mind, that saves him from making a horrible mistake. He is forced to slap around the boy who, just a short while ago, he was willing to love as a son. When he threatens to shoot Sasha and Elena doesn't break, he finally sees her for what she is.

"You're ten times the spy I ever was," he tells her in disgust, and he is glad of it. He never wants to be like her – likes to think that he never could be. If the roles had been reserved, he knows for certain, he would not be able to sacrifice either Catherine or Ruth for the cause. That is his line, and he clings to it for all that he's worth.

- o -

Catherine stays in the background and watches everything unfold. She is by nature observant and notices a number of things. She sees that her father is all at sea emotionally, that he no longer trusts his own judgement, that he is deeply shocked at how thoroughly he was played by the Russian. And she sees how hurt he is by her refusal to talk to him. Then there is the woman, Ruth, and her fierce desire to protect and comfort her father, her intelligence and perceptiveness as she sees the duplicitous game Elena is playing, and her ability to sway her father's decision. And finally, she recognises the utter confusion of Sasha Gavrik as he realises, just like her, that he doesn't really know who his parents are at all. When Ruth walks out of the bunker Catherine follows her, unaware of the drama unfolding behind her between Ilya and Elena Gavrik. Ruth walks up to her father and Catherine hangs back, unashamedly eavesdropping on their conversation.

Ruth watches him as he talks on his mobile. He looks tired and world-weary, and she wants to take him in her arms and sooth away his cares.

"You all right?" she asks somewhat needlessly, as the answer is so obviously 'no'.

"I don't know," he says honestly. There is one thought running through his head: _I made Elena what she is_.

He tries to explain the depth of his self-loathing to Ruth, not sure she will understand what he is trying to say. "She talked about the line we don't cross…"

She does. Of course she does.

"I think you can stop hating yourself for the lies you told her," Ruth tells him, and he looks away, rubs his eyes. He doesn't believe her, doesn't believe that he deserves forgiveness, from her or himself, and she is not surprised – mere days ago she told him that he has too many secrets for her to accept, that she doesn't know him at all. But now, she knows that he was right. She does know _him_, even if she does not know everything _about_ him. And the rest is just so much noise. All that matters is that he is a good man, and she respects and loves him, and he loves her in his own limited way.

"I always thought that with every lie we tell, our true selves get buried that little bit deeper," she says, knowing she owes him an explanation. "And I worry that one day I'll wake up and look for it - look for me - and I won't be there anymore."

He looks at her, concern and understanding written across his face, and it encourages her to continue. "But that hasn't happened, Harry, to either of us."

He sighs deeply. "Not yet," he acknowledges, and she forges ahead with what she really wants to say.

"I left because I thought there'd always be too many secrets between us. Stupid really, because… You and I, we're made of secrets."

He picks up on her warm tone of voice, and hope flares brightly in his chest. Could it not be too late for them, even after today's revelations? He hardly dares believe it. She must know what he's thinking, because she runs her hand down his arm and grasps his hand, conveying her message in the clearest possible terms.

Ruth needs to say it. She finally knows exactly what she wants, and she will be the brave one this time. It is her turn.

"So leave the Service… with me," she says, squeezing his hand, "while we still know who we are."

He stares at her, speechless, overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment. Yes, he wants to say, yesyesyes. Please, yes. But effusive displays of emotion are not their way, and the smile he can't suppress is answer enough as he allows himself to believe at last. He wants, more than anything, to kiss her, and he is about to lean in and do so when he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye.

- o -

When Sasha Gavrik strides past her, Catherine notices the piece of glass in his hand and follows him. She is close behind him as she calls out a warning to her father, and the man that could have been her brother whirls around in surprise. She feels a hot spear of pain and stumbles back, clutching her side. Sasha stares at her in shock and time slows down.

Harry sees a drop of his daughter's blood falling from the shard to the grass, and then he moves, catching her as she crumples to the ground.

"Can't… breathe," she gasps, her eyes fixed on him.

A fear colder than he's ever known grips his heart. "No, you're all right," he says desperately as he lays her down carefully and presses a hand to her side.

He is vaguely aware of a shot ringing out and Ruth kneeling next to him, but it pales into insignificance at the feeling of Catherine's warm blood pulsing through his fingers. When Calum says that the Medivac is twelve minutes away, he knows instinctively that it is too long. Ruth prompts him gently to talk to Catherine, to keep her face warm, but her blood is on his hand and he doesn't know what to do with it. He asks Catherine to tell him about her latest film and holds up his end of the most banal conversation of his life in a haze. In that moment, he would give anything to swap places with her. His child, whom he loves unconditionally, is dying in his arms and there is nothing he can do about it. He wants to rail against the universe, to scream and shout at the unfairness of it, but he stays strong and calm for her. Catherine's frightened eyes never leave his face.

"Dad," she says, "I always hoped that we could go to Berlin again. Remember when you took me to see the fall of the Wall?"

He almost chokes on his answer. "Of course I remember. It was one of the happiest times of my life. And we _will_ go again, do you hear me Catherine? We'll go to Berlin, just you and me."

She smiles wistfully, gasping for breath. "Daddy," she whispers, "it wasn't meant to be. You belong to the country... you always have."

And she closes her eyes and slips away from him.

- o -

He shuts down all emotion, doesn't allow himself to feel anything. Instead he focuses on what needs to be done. He organises her funeral with clinical efficiency, and on the day itself he remains determinedly dispassionate. His ex-wife disintegrates at the gravesite, pummelling his chest with her fists and screaming, "Feel _something_, you cold bastard!"

He doesn't allow himself to do so. He knows, if he does, he will fall apart, and this time he will not be able to put himself back together again. His daughter is dead, and it is his fault. If he allowed any emotion into his heart, it will fill with self-loathing and guilt of such magnitude that it will crush him.

He hasn't spoken to Ruth since it happened, because she is the one person that could pierce the armour he's erected, and he can't afford that. After the funeral he makes contact with Tom Quinn and orders the death of Mikhael Levrov. He forces himself to tidy up Catherine's affairs and pack up her flat. As he does so, he finds a picture of the two of them in front of the Berlin Wall, and he almost breaks. He gets into his car and simply drives, but the bleak void in his soul stays with him. He finds himself in Suffolk, in front of the cottage Ruth talked about buying. The sign states 'Sold' in big letters, and when he glances up to the first floor window she is standing there, watching him. _She did it_, he thinks, and is inordinately proud of her. He almost goes in, but Catherine's words come back to him: _It wasn't meant to be_.

So he turns his back on the cottage and drives back to London, back to the Service. It is the only way he knows to honour his daughter's sacrifice; the only means of penance so that, perhaps, one day he will be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

The day he goes back to work, he visits the Thames House Memorial Wall. He knows too many of the names etched there for eternity. For a moment he imagines his own name on there, wishing desperately for it to be so instead of Catherine's name on a headstone in a distant graveyard. But it is not, so he goes back to the Grid and sits behind his desk. It is there, the place where he's had to make so many terrible decisions, that his resolve almost cracks. The emotion threatens to overwhelm him, and when his door opens he looks up in relief, welcoming the distraction. Until he registers who it is.

Ruth.

He can't speak, doesn't trust himself to do so. She comes forward and smiles nervously, toying with something in her hands. A key.

"I am going back to work for the Home Secretary," she says into the silence.

He frowns; he thought she'd moved to Suffolk permanently after buying the cottage, to start her normal life. She senses his confusion.

"I told you that I couldn't picture myself living in the cottage, but the truth is… I can't picture myself living there without you. I bought it as an investment in the future and… it will be there when you're ready."

She lays the key on his desk, and adds, "_I_ will be there when you're ready, and we'll go and live there together."

He stares at the key for a long time and tries not to cry, and when he looks up again she is gone. His phone starts to ring and he sits motionless, wondering if he is strong enough to pick it up. He thinks of Catherine's blood on his hands and knows that he has no choice, and snatches up the receiver.

"Harry Pearce."

As he says the words, his other hand closes around the key.

- o -

_Epilogue_

Ruth is curled on the sofa, staring into the flames of the fire crackling in the hearth. It is Christmas Eve and she is spending it at the cottage, as she does with most of her time off. As always when she is here, her thoughts are dominated by Harry. And it is because of this that she thinks it is her imagination when she hears the door open – many months have passed since Catherine's death and he is still locked in his self-imposed emotional isolation. After the loss of George and Nico, she sees it for what it is – a survival mechanism, and continues to give him the space he needs. But she is beginning to doubt whether he will ever use the key she gave him, ever take her up on the offer of sharing their lives, in London until the day they are both ready to retire, and then here. She sees movement out of the corner of her eye, and turns her head to see him stand in the doorway, snowflakes on his coat and his hair. He is real; she is not imagining him. His eyes are on her, soft and sad and… hopeful.

"Ruth?" he says, so many questions encapsulated in her name.

"Harry," she breathes, just as many answers given in his.

When they embrace, she knows they are finally home.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is for TL, who asked nicely for a follow-up over on Spooks Forum.**

**- o -**

They eventually let go of each other, but not fully. Their hands link almost unconsciously, as both seek to reassure themselves that the other is still there.

Harry searches her face intently, and what he reads there must reassure him because he quips, "I half expected that key not to fit in the lock after all this time."

Ruth laughs and squeezes his fingers reassuringly.

"I'm sure your lock-picking skills would have been up to the challenge."

It is his turn to laugh and they stand, beaming at each other, until Ruth suddenly turns serious.

"_Harry_," she says again, urgently, passionately.

His free hand finds her cheek as he breathes deeply, struggling to keep his emotions in check. His thumb strokes away the tear that threatens to escape from the corner of her eye.

"I'm here, Ruth," he promises, his voice gruff and ardent, and she nods and nestles her cheek more firmly into his palm.

He marvels at how perfectly it fits there, at how soft her skin is. He is tempted to kiss her, but he doesn't. It is important to him that they reconnect emotionally before anything else happens. Many months have passed in which they have barely spoken, and he has no right to turn up here and expect her to fall into his arms. Besides, this momentous coming together must not be rushed; he wants their physical discovery of each other to be measured in days, weeks and months, not a few frantic minutes or hours. And if he kisses her now, he won't stop.

"I need to fetch some things from the car," he says, feeling the need to put some distance between them, to have time to tamp down the desire sparking through every nerve.

A look of concern flashes in her eyes, and he hastens to add, "If it's all right for me to stay tonight…"

He trails off uncertainly, realising how presumptive he's been, how poorly he's thought through his appearance here tonight. He wants to explain to her that, for weeks now, he's found it increasingly hard to stay away from her; that many a night he has sat in his office and stared at the phone, trying to pluck up the courage to call her, ask her for a drink. And how today, all day long, that key practically burnt a hole in his pocket, begging to be used, until he could no longer refuse.

Relief replaces the concern on her face, and she nods quickly.

"I'd like that," she admits, and lets go of his hand.

He lingers, about to say something, then changes his mind and smiles at her wanly before turning away.

All the way out to the car and back, he thinks about her, belatedly recognising in her reaction a fear that he will change his mind, and will get in the car and drive away. When he returns, she is standing in the kitchen, waiting for him, and he knows that he can no longer delay telling her. He closes the door firmly behind him and turns to her, holding out a small gift. She looks at him curiously.

"What's this?" she asks.

"Merry Christmas, Ruth," he murmurs, stepping closer so that she can take the gift.

"Open it," he encourages when she wavers, and she finally takes it from his outstretched hand and peels away the wrapping to reveal a rectangular box. Inside is a bunch of keys and she knows what it is even before he speaks.

"It's for my house in London."

She nods, and he takes a deep breath and continues. "I'm not ready to leave the Service, Ruth. I know that you asked me to, but after Catherine's-"

He looks away, then back at her. "I can't. Not yet. But I also don't want to waste any more time. And if you'll have me on these terms, I hoped that we could live together in London, in my house, until we're both ready to retire…?"

He has been brutally honest about what he can give to her, because she deserves the truth. He respects her too much not to, and now he waits anxiously for her reaction. If what he is offering is not enough, he will be heart-broken, but he will accept it, and will go back to his lonely life without complaint, and hope that she will still be here the day that he is ready to offer her all of himself. As he watches, she weighs the bunch of keys thoughtfully in her hand, and then a slow smile spreads across her face and his heart misses a beat.

"I think," she says, looking at him, "that this may be the best Christmas gift I've ever received," and then she takes his hand and leads him off on a tour of the house.

In each room she shows him, she enthuses about the characteristics that appeal to her. It is infectious and he falls in love with the cottage, now that he gets to see it through her eyes. Downstairs, the kitchen and dining room that is filled with light in the mornings, and the living room which has a big old fireplace and views over the garden. She leads him upstairs and shows him the bathroom, surprisingly spacious, and the two bedrooms.

"One is quite small though," she explains, "so I thought it could be your office."

He stops inside the door and surveys the old-fashioned desk and more modern swivel chair silently. He moves around the desk and seats himself in the chair. It is adjusted just the way he likes it.

"Perfect," he marvels, too overcome to say more.

In the main bedroom she shows him his closet space, and sits on the foot of the bed whilst he hangs up a few sets of clothes. He stands back and admires the way his clothes share closet space with hers with a small smile. It looks right. When he looks over his shoulder at her, the light in her eyes tells him she thinks the same.

She leaves him to it, and when he joins her in the living room a few minutes later a bottle of Ardbeg is standing next to a bottle of red on the coffee table. He pauses when his gaze falls on it.

"I must be more transparent than I thought," he says slowly, "since you seemed to know that I'd come even before I did."

He sounds genuinely puzzled and she shakes her head.

"It wasn't 'know' so much as 'hope'," she says simply, and he smiles in understanding. Hanging onto irrational hope is a feeling he knows well; he has years of experience at it.

Harry settles next to her on the sofa and pulls her against his side. They sit quietly, enjoying the fact that they are here together. His fingers explore her hand, drawing idle patterns on her palm and tracing the ring on her middle finger; they don't still for a single moment. It is hypnotic, and she gives herself over to the sensations. She will happily stay like this forever, spend the rest of her life on this sofa with Harry writing love letters on her palm. His voice drags her out of her reverie.

"Aren't you going to open your presents?"

He reaches for two festively wrapped packages on the side table and hands them to her.

"Actually, only one of them is for me," she explains, and hands one back to him.

She opens hers; it is from Towers, and it is a bottle of expensive perfume. A large bottle of _very_ expensive perfume. She glances at Harry, but his face is inscrutable. He takes the box from her hands and puts it on the table, then wordlessly continues his exploration of her hand. She can tell, though, that he is no longer as relaxed as before. When she tilts her head to look him in the eye, he slips her ring off her middle finger and slips it onto her ring finger instead. As he does so, he says with an edge to his voice, "Towers seems to have a soft spot for you."

She looks at his fingers stroking the ring on her left hand and takes a deep breath.

"The other present is yours; open it."

He reluctantly lets go of her hand and does so. Inside are two tickets for the Legends of English Cricket benefit dinner. Harry stares at them, awestruck.

"These are like gold dust. How did you...?"

"Towers pulled some strings for me. It seems he has a soft spot for you as well," she says meaningfully, holding his gaze.

He laughs, relieved and happy, and leans forward to kiss her; a soft, chaste, lingering kiss.

When he releases her, she adds, "You'll be sitting at Graham Gooch's table. Is that all right?"

"_All right_?" he echoes, dazed. "It's wonderful. Fantastic. Sublime."

She smirks at his uncharacteristic effusiveness, delighting in the fact that she's made him this happy.

He kisses her again, then asks, "Will you come with me?"

"Well," she says and presses closer to him, "I suspect Towers was hoping that you'd take him..."

"I would, but his legs aren't built for wearing skirts," he retorts drily, eyes dancing, and they laugh together.

He sobers after a moment and traces her cheek with his fingers. "Come with me?"

She knows he is asking about more than the dinner.

"Always," she promises softly.

- o -

It is the night of the Cricket Legends dinner, and they are on their way home after a wonderful evening. They don't speak, and the tension crackles and sparks between them. It is a good tension, though, and Harry feels as though he can taste the expectation in the air. He half expects the cabbie to pick up on it, but perhaps their years of experience in hiding their mutual desire is standing them in good stead. Ruth is staring straight ahead, but her hand is resting on his thigh. Its warmth seeps through his trousers, his skin and straight into his bloodstream, igniting a physical attraction stronger than he can ever remember feeling. He is half-aroused already, and she lazily strokes the back of a finger against him every once in a while. He is staring at her, bewitched, and knows that she can feel his eyes pass over her figure heatedly, tangibly, by the way a flush creeps slowly up her neck. They are ready, and tonight, soon, he will be inside her.

His eyes linger over her breasts, beautifully but tastefully accentuated by her dress. He longs to dip his tongue into the hint of cleavage visible. Even though those gorgeous curves are no longer a mystery to him, even though he has held their weight in his palms and tasted them, he can't wait to kiss them again, to coax the peaks to harden under his touch, his tongue. She turns her head to him and the heat in his gaze burns right through her. Her breathing quickens, and he gives her a smoldering smile. Her finger brushes against him again, an acknowledgement of what is to come.

He pays the taxi, and by the time he turns to the house she has the door open and is waiting for him. His fingers encircle her wrist gently as soon as he closes the door and he feels her pulse thundering. He tugs her against him and kisses her, slowly and thoroughly. In the last few weeks, they have gradually found their way as a couple, learning to live together, to compromise and bend with each other. They have talked a lot, sometimes debating, sometimes arguing, but always respecting. They have discovered each other's little foibles, annoying habits and pet hates. And they have touched and cuddled and kissed. They are spectacularly good at the kissing, in Harry's opinion. As if to prove that point, Ruth's tongue flickers against his lips and he immediately grants her access, stroking his own against hers. She moans softly, deep in her throat, and presses closer against him. He is hard against her hip and drops a hand to stroke up the back of her thigh and cup her buttock, and is rewarded with her tongue swirling around his. When they pull apart, he feels drugged, heady with the taste of her. She smiles at him and he leans forward and dips his tongue into her dimples, whilst her fingers tug at his bowtie and loosens the first few buttons of his shirt. As soon as she has access, she strokes his Adam's apple and down into the hollow at the base of his neck, before following the same path with her mouth. He reciprocates by indulging his earlier fantasy and dipping his tongue into the valley between her breasts and breathing in her scent deeply. When he palms her left breast, the nipple is hard under the soft material of her dress, and he can't wait any longer.

He leads her to their bedroom, and they undress each other quickly, eager to get access to the expanses of skin they have not yet explored. When she stands before him in all her naked glory, he forgets to breathe. He is spellbound by her feminine form, imperfections and all. Ruth is similarly enchanted, and runs her hands over his biceps, his chest, his stomach and down to his arousal. When she strokes him, a long, assured stroke, he draws in a sharp breath and pulls her to him, wanting to feel her skin against his. Her hands run up his back and into his hair as they kiss roughly. He lays her down on the bed and she pulls him down with her. He worships her with his mouth, alternating between her breasts and her core until she begs him for more. Her eyes are large and luminescent and stay locked to his as he slides into her at long last. It is exquisite, made all the better for the anticipation which preceded it. They hold still for a moment, kissing lightly, until she nods at him and wraps her legs around him. Harry pushes himself up on his arms and looks down at her adoringly, and then he begins to move. It takes them a few thrusts to find their rhythm, and he rejoices in every sound he coaxes from her. She guides him through word and touch until he finds the angle that unravels her, and her boldness delights and excites him. Her consciousness narrows down to just this, them, straining together. She is acutely aware of every point where their skin touches - her fingers clamped around his biceps, tight enough to bruise, where she can feel his muscles contract and extend as he thrusts; her heels pressing into his buttocks, urging him closer, deeper; and his length filling her with long, deep strokes, over and over and over. And she is aware of his face above her, his eyes brown and warm and overflowing with love for her. When she comes undone, his name tumbles from her lips in ecstasy, and it is the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. It is enough to pull him over the edge as well, and he empties himself deep inside her.

Afterwards he gathers her to him possessively and she runs her hand across the planes of his back, still slick with sweat. They don't speak, the moment too big for mere words. He brushes his lips over hers repeatedly until slumber claims him. She watches him sleep long into the night, and when a little smile settles upon his lips her heart swells, and she thinks that, perhaps, they will find peace in each other at last.

_Fin_


End file.
